


There are many brothers like him (but this one is mine)

by Dalandel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, Descriptions of Major Injuries, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Fëanor's POV, Half-Sibling Incest, Infidelity, Insanity, M/M, Major canon divergence, Manhandling, Minor Injuries, Non-native Author, POV First Person, estranged spouses letting off steam, past and present tense, they are not perfect people and they make shitty choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 04:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalandel/pseuds/Dalandel
Summary: They had not seen me come, but they see me come, and scatter away like flocks of birds. All but one.(Fëanáro is used to getting what he wants – and keeping it.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing except my own madness.

My first memory is that of a flame.

Bright.

 _You are my kindred_ , it whispered as light burst around me, seducing me to life, _you, an unnamed child, soon to be nameless no more._

A whispered word from Mother’s lips, a kiss upon my brow the seal of acknowledgement, of love, of my right as her son, a prince, the apple of her eye. The second of my Father’s line. I was proud from the moment I opened my eyes and beheld the ones who had created me.

Yet for my brightness great sorrow visited us, tore asunder a family to put another in its place. My anger, I reckon still, was justified, but others have claimed there was a great flaw in me, to be able to revel in my father’s discomfort, punish him for being lonely, for wanting more. I never wanted to listen to such talk – it was hardly anyone’s place to comment upon a tragedy in the royal family.

Then _he_ was born, and the rage I had felt towards my father in the passing of my mother enkindled, a deep dark stain I could not wash off. I had learned to love my father again, for he was all I had, but this child I could never love, never accept, never look upon with anything but silent contempt.

“He is your brother,” said my father, his eyes full of plea as I refused the blue-eyed boy he kept wanting to push into my arms. “He is of your own blood.”

Yes – and that half-blood was the exact reason Ñolofinwë was safe from me, and it did nothing to lessen my disgust. His big blue eyes would watch me, regard me as if I had forged a key to Menel for his pleasure, as if I had magicked a valley of jewels from a mountain of pebbles. I turned my head away, yanked my sleeve out of his weak grasp. I would still feel his gaze boring into my back long into the Mingling of the Trees, like a knife pressed between my shoulder blades.

“I only want to be like you,” he would tell me, clinging to my arm, his little face turned upwards, eyes full of odd admiration.

“You should not. You could not,” I would spit at him in answer, feeling my face transform with a sneer. He would let go of me then, but this happened many more times, and always left me uncomfortable. He was a child, yes, but a stubborn one, and not blessed with much intellect – my half-brother shied away from his books, made a mess of the library, ran off from his caretakers. His mother once told me he acted up like so because I would not notice him. I told her to raise her child better, and we no longer spoke of the matter.

 _Wise_ Finwë, they decided to call him. What a mockery.

Of course, he grew up from that, from a chubby child to a gangly youth, graceful like a stack of straws, with his long limbs and face, and hair thick and sleek and black like oil framing his gaunt cheeks. Every once in a while, he sought my favour, but finally my coldness diminished him. In time, he stopped trying to speak to me, and for the most part only his silent presence remained. That black stain in the corner of my vision I could ignore.

 

* * *

 

Until we fought.

Until he kissed me.

It took me by great surprise, but even greater one was that my body decided to answer – me, a wedded Elf, a father of sons, the Prince of the Crown. Lust wound into my heart like a worm, kissing my veins with its slimy sides, and when his hand found my cock through my robes, I was already hard.

For him.

To this day I know not why. It has been argued love and hate are too close to ever truly be apart, two sides of the same coin – the dichotomy, this unholy siblinghood, the thing which underlines the significance of both. Yet why did my contempt not quench my passion?

Even as I kissed him I bit him, and even as I held him I bruised him, and something inside me screamed at the closeness, something in me revelled in his fragility, seethed at his strength. The long white neck bruised beneath my teeth, and an animal instinct almost bade me to test how far I could sink in; for a long time, I knew not if I wanted his blood more than his skin. Ñolofinwë seemed to be of the same mind, and oddly enough I could appreciate it in my fevered mind.

He would not go down quietly, for all his previous obtuse silence. He would push at me and scratch me and curse me and stubbornly try to bear down on me, his torn tunic fluttering around his white, heaving chest. His plain face had not told the full truth of him, I found – the belly I exposed was sculpted, his navel the shape of a sickle crowning a thin trail of soft black hair, and beneath it his hardness was full and flushed, curved and smooth, filling my callused grasp like a fine tool, feeling all the more familiar for it. Underneath that, his stones were heavy and round, encased in soft, warm skin, each fitting perfectly my cupped hand. There, he was _good_ , worthy of my attention, but he only stilled enough for me to pleasure when I sucked at my finger and slid it into him, paralysing him with sensation and bodily longing. It did not take him long to move against it, hunger replacing all else in his ice chip glare. His too wide, unlovely mouth kept trying to join with mine, his soft whines and sharp gasps finally cajoling me into indulging him. Our kisses tasted of wine, drowned the most delicate notes in the flavour of his lush mouth. His pupils had blown out of proportion, staring through me unfocused, the weight of his desire blunting his wits as I lured his release out of him, decidedly cruel and accurate. It must have hurt him though he did not complain, just laid there with one arm raised above his head, a jewelled hand clutching a bruise into my shoulder.

I remember him speaking my name, voice shaky with reverence, and acquiescing swiftly as I smeared his thighs with his come and my saliva before pushing them together for me to claim; he whined with renewed need when I finally spoke to him, want bringing my tone down; rich and dark, heated words slipping into his tapered ear.

_I will take you yet, properly, on your back and on your knees._

Possession, I found once more, is a heavy drug.

_I will make you scream, you slut of a prince, you will beg me for your crown._

He might have flushed, shame tinting over the blush of arousal – yet he sought my lips for a sip, drank the growls of need as if such could have sustained him, as if the ragged syllables were pieces of me for him to claim. He shivered, pulled me closer, his hair like mild water in my hands.

It was a revelation – I had pushed him away for long years, wished him gone, but now that he was beneath me I wanted him to stay there and be _mine_.

He is lucky – few have regained my interest after losing it, and Ñolofinwë never held my regard in the first place.

Then, following some weeks of snatching moments for hurried couplings in locked rooms and hidden corners – as he lay in my arms like a sweaty, boneless doll after having spent himself into my bruised, swollen channel – I brushed back his heavy hair and whispered: “We can never be alike, you will never be me.”

His look was frozen ash dotted with virgin rime, but his fingers kept skimming up and down my arm and then through my own messy mane. His uninteresting face was soft, sorrow sitting deep in the corners of his mouth.

“I know, Fëanáro,” he said then, his voice made deeper by adulthood and roughened by recent, extensive use. A hand claimed me by the back of my neck, pulled me down to meet his bite-scabbed lips.

My first memory is that of a flame.

Fire and I are one, alike.

And yet, it was as if Ñolofinwë’s ice chip eyes had cracked me open, scraped at me with a frozen chisel, carved him a home in me, and I knew then that I would never forgive him this.

 


	2. Chapter 2

His eyes are dark as he watches the garden, revealed to him through the colourful mosaic of the decorative window of my parlour. The window is a gift from my wife and sons, and it is exquisite – flame oranges, ruby reds and yellows of daffodils and blossoming dyer’s chamomile each stand out in perfect harmony, yet, amazingly so, create no grating patches of multicoloured light across the room even if Laurelin is at the height of its rule and warmly bathes the room in its glow.

The window is tall and slim, just as is the one gazing out through it. I know not what he is looking at so studiously, but it is not the gilded framework I described before; and surely not the black swans slowly coasting among the green-golden reeds of the pond, nor the blossoming trees guarding the lane leading to my house. The courtyard is silent, I know it, so nothing there should be able to keep his interest so fervently. And why would one with eyes and heart even regard the beauty of it so grimly?

His weight barely shifts from hip to hip, the hem of his robe brushing lightly over the creamy tiles. He is tense, from neck to shoulder to shoulder, his spine set in cast-iron. It is nothing new. Unless I fuck that tension out of him, he remains like so, stiff like a statue.

It evades me why he would choose to be like that.

“Ñolofinwë,” I say, and instead of looking at me he tenses further and lifts his chin in resignation. His long hair, braided simply back, dips a little lower with the motion, brushing against the curve of his lower back. That thick rope of black strands has made more movement in these few moments than his entire body.

“Fëanáro,” he answers, but his voice is colourless, sharp in some way and dull in others. “The perennial surrounding the pavilion looks wonderful from here. I would very much desire to see it closer.”

“You are free to walk down there.” It is early, but I stand up from the divan and pick up the carafe from the small side table. The crystal glints against the lip of my goblet, bright, cutting through the thick midday air. I pour another glass, let it dangle from my fingers. The weight of it is insubstantial but tangible – as the liquor sloshes inside, a thin golden sheen remains for a mere moment, clinging to the surface of the crystal. I flick the glass with my nail, causing the crystal to ring brightly.

Ñolofinwë looks at me now, though his chest still faces the window. I clench my jaw, my patience thinning at his petulance, but I hold out the glass for him. He takes it, unquestioning, but does not bring it to his lips. I drain half of mine in one go, but the beverage does nothing to calm me. In fact, it does the opposite – the lingering dry burn in my throat feeds my ire. I try not to let my anger reign over me, but I do wonder why he would come to me and then behave like this.

It is a waste of both of our time.

“What is it? I doubt you came here to discuss my garden.”

If he thinks I will grovel in front of him to have him talk to me, he is wrong. I am not his lovesick suitor. But neither should he blame me for not trying – behaving all uninterested will get us nowhere. And I would lie if I claimed nothing in him interests me.

This close, his skin smells faintly of musk and hibiscus, and something in me stirs despite my irritation. His skin is easily his best feature – it’s soft, smooth, bruising easily, but its pure, unblemished and pale surface carries the scents of his body oils well. He never smells displeasing, and his sweat does not put me off. I stand closer, slip a hand down his silk-covered back. Beneath the layers my half-brother is warm – too warm, perhaps, but he tends to wear too many clothes.

He stiffens further, holds his breath – in the wake of its inevitable release, he takes a sip from his glass, licks his lips. I wait. He always takes his sweet time.

When Ñolofinwë finally speaks, his eyes are narrowed, their corners creased. It is an inquisitive look, but one not quite attractive. He rarely looks his best when he thinks too hard.

“What are we doing, Fëanáro? What is this? What am I to you?”

He seems a bit irritated, mayhap a little shocked by his own words, and I know not what to think of it. I did not expect to have this problem with him. He is smarter than this – yet he seems to expect an answer, and I quell my disappointment for now. There is hope to get this out of the way soon, anyway, for we have no reason to lie to each other in this.

“Is this why your face looks so sour today?”

He lowers his glass on the windowsill and finally turns towards me. The skin of his neck, barely visible beneath his high collar, is splotchy pink – a few loose black locks cling to his cheeks. It occurs to me he hasn’t worn this many layers to visit me in weeks. It’s a full courtly attire, one made to enhance his height and figure, but also one with heavy, starched under-tunics and separate multi-layered sleeves. Compared to my simple combination of loose red tunic and breeches, that choice can only be a deliberate deed to distance us.

“’Tis not as though I woke up with doubt in my mind, Fëanáro. You know it. Oh, you have made sure I know it, every single day of my life.” His voice is low and thin, the words a blur that makes me think he has practised in his mind what to say, how to try and confuse me, but fails to execute. Something tightens in my chest, yet I ignore it as I shake my head in disbelief.

“I would have thought you knew when you decided to kiss me, to surrender yourself to me – when I agreed to it, and took you, and let you take me in turn. What else is there? What else do you need?” With each word my irritation rises, and his dreary face becomes more unappealing by each darting glance, doubly so as my eyes drill into him, seek the root of this uncertainty beyond the glow of his discoloured aura.

“I need naught but recognition. And only from you.” He makes effort to sound genuine, I can see. His digits grip his elbows tight, his knuckles are white around the too-delicate bones. He is distressed. “But you would love me only out of spite.”

“Love you? Ñolofinwë, my half-brother – love has nothing to do with this. Surely you know. You have always known. Of the threads connecting us, none is named friendship. And spite, you say, why yes indeed, for I spite our past each time I hold you and let you shatter in my arms. Do not mistake that for love. It is a gift, more than a token – and until now, one I thought you appreciated.”

It is too much – his eyes widen in shock, and what colour he has draws from his face. The stained glass is not enough to hide the effect I have had.

“I have always known you cruel, but this – Fëanáro, this… this is unnecessary.”

He will not cry in front of me. He has not cried in front of me since he was a boy. “Either you lie, or then you do not understand yourself at all, or you truly have no heart,” he continues, voice no longer soft.

“Why would I lie? I have always done you the courtesy of telling the truth.” I put my glass next to his, lift my hand – he nearly ducks when I stroke his cheek, pet down the slope of his jaw, inch my fingers beneath his ear, but stills then, like a wild animal ready to flee. His pulse is erratic along with his breathing now – I almost want to tell him to sit down, to calm himself. Having my half-brother hyperventilate in my parlour is not what I consider a good pastime when I have the house for myself.

His voice is thin now, and indeed his eyes glisten, though he seems as unwilling to shed his tears as I am to see them. “You are many things, Fëanáro, but I would have never believed you capable of bedding someone you so utterly _hate_. I had – oh, I thought I had reason to believe that you were starting to see me in a different light – that after all the years of vague yet persisting hope I am finally rewarded with your friendship. Do you truly dislike everything I am? Do I offend your eyes as I stand here?”

I suppress a sigh of disappointment – had I the need for this, I would still live with my wife, the mother of my children. Ñolofinwë’s mistake is thinking I have patience for this. I decide to speak the truth once again – if he is not happy with it, it is his problem, not mine. If he thinks that sharing my bed at times means having me sugar-coat my opinions for his sake…

“Your value to me has nothing to do with how you look or how you think. You are plain. But you are willing, and you have the strength of spirit I look for – the kind fit to accept and bear my fire. Until now I have thought you knew the ground we stand upon.”

He stares at me – the blue of his eyes seems nearly green in this light and against the reddened whites surrounding his irises. Then, suddenly, he pulls away, and my hand is left clutching air.

I fill it again with the half-drained glass as my half-brother paces back, the heels of his boots softly clicking against the stone. When I take a step, it is to put my body between him and the door. He will rather see reason than cross me – here, in this. I know his weakness, after all, and to his fortune, I cherish it. I have no need for his approval, but I will have his acknowledgement.

I hold my hand out – he stares at it, uncomprehending, both of his own still holding his elbows. He looks so young now, with his flushed cheeks.

“Ñolo,” I say, this time in a placating tone, “come to me. I will make you forget we had this discussion.”

The way he looks at my face makes the blood in my veins flow back north, though – it’s a look of such betrayal, such overwhelming disappointment, that I find myself lacking further words. Never before has he managed this, not without sealing my lips with his or covering them with his hand.

“No,” he whispers, the single word coloured with the quiver of his pale lips, the sharp shake of his dark head. “Not anymore.”

Then he surges past me, the hard bone of his shoulder impacting with mine, leaving a numb, tingling sensation to run down towards my fingers. The glass shatters as I drop it, covering the light tiles with glimmering shards, yet Ñolofinwë does not let the noise distract him. He is gone, gone from the room, and in a few shorts moments, gone from my house. I absently massage my arm as I turn back towards the mosaic window – Ñolofinwë does not look back as he strides across the yard, slipping into the stables to fetch his steed. In but a moment, he’s gone in a cloud of dust raised by his stallion’s hooves.

Somehow, I feel utterly alone, and the weight of it is nothing short of unpleasant to carry. The anger I feel at my half-brother for humiliating me (and himself, of course, with his childish behaviour) does not fulfil me in the way it perhaps should – the joy for seeing his displeasure is no way as pleasing as it was, once upon a time. I wonder at this, my thoughts darkening as the Mingling progresses, and empty the carafe after cleaning the mess on the floor.

 

* * *

 

He looks haughty. Yes. Haughty, like a swan who has chased the competition from his lake, claimed it for his own, and yet – yet, it was Ñolofinwë who left, not I, and I hate the subtle sting of my pride as his eyes glance off me, unseeing like raw sapphires.

The stones ring under his heels. He has eye for a striking figure, I must admit. His robes are carefully cut so that only the tips of his boots show beneath the hem of his under-robe. The pale silk shows bright against the light blue trim of his inner-robe, over which glimmers a dark blue outer-robe with silver filigree patterns. On his breast rests his jewels - none cut by my hand. If he used to show me subtle favour before, it is gone now. No one else would notice.

I choose not to talk to him. Why should I?

“Atar.” A voice comes from my right side, close, lips near whispering in a confidential tone. “I apologise, I should not pry, but is there grievance between you and Uncle?”

“Is there not always,” I say, failing to sound nonchalant as I talk past the lump in my throat. Nelyafinwë with his sharp eyes notices but does not ask further, does not press, his fingers laid over the crook of my elbow. I stroke his hand, smile at him. He looks at me with concern, quiet, waiting. Such a kind, beautiful boy.

Ñolofinwë stops, his back towards us. Someone has called upon his name, his title – a page, bearing a letter. From distance, I see a wax seal pressed upon the lip of the paper. Ñolofinwë breaks the seal and glances swiftly over the contents before folding the parchment and hiding it in his sleeve.

The lump finally chooses to pass, but it is now replaced with a hint of burning rage, one that makes my fingers warm over my eldest son’s clasp – makes him bear it, brave, loyal. I bring his hand to my lips, kiss the side of his palm in apology while my eyes still seethe.

Such a precious, fine, understanding boy.

Unlike some others.

 

* * *

 

I feel there is no sufficient word in my tongue to describe the anger, the _hatred_ I feel. It burns, it burns even _me_ , and a part of me wishes to scream, shout out so that he hears and shakes free from his dream to cower in terror.

Had I thought of him in my bed, really, with his hair fanned out and his sloped cheeks flushed, legs sidling my hips, fingers squeezing my arms? How is it that I once found his flesh so welcoming, when now I only wish to curl my hands around his throat and contemplate his still, broken body?

My sight is awash with the red of his blood, and my murderous fantasy has long since stopped terrifying me. I think on it and wring my hands around the bundle of silken sheet until it complains and tears, _complains and tears_ like his soft blue nightgown once did beneath my assault.

 

* * *

 

I do not demand to see him. I go to see him.

A week has passed, and he has not yet returned. I thought better of him, and again he has disappointed me, though certainly that should not surprise me. Now he stands, with his left flank towards me, his white hands cradling a rose bloom of deep crimson. The winding path of our father’s garden has hidden him from view, and I am already upon him when my eyes land on his form.

Ñolofinwë looks well, unremorseful. He has dressed elegantly in a long jacket the colour of his indigo eyes, the waist cinched thin with a white sash woven with pearls. He does not look up at me, but tenses in anticipation before I put my hand on his shoulder and yank him around. Hissing, he grabs my arm to steady himself, taking a step back, but the pebbles under him shift and he falls sideways, bringing me down with him. I hurt my hand against the rocks, the flesh of my palm splitting open, and he as well makes a muted sound of pain as my knee bruises the flesh of his thigh.

I curse him, and the look he gives me is ridden with anger and… fear.

“Get off me,” he says and pushes at me, a hard hand colliding with my chest, his knee sinking into the hollow of my hip as he’s trying to slither away from underneath me. The heady scent of roses mixes with his perfume, and I am overcome with the need to keep him right where he is.

“Behave yourself,” I order as I catch the flailing hand trying to scratch at my neck, my face. Like this, I remain stronger, my build still stockier, and he hisses and tries to kick at me as I pin him down by his wrists, feel his pulse flicker and tap betwixt tendon and bone.

His eyes are blue and cold, his lips thinned with rage. “I will scream.”

“Do you want them to find us like this, half-brother?”

His fingers curl, his knuckles brush the cream-and-grey coloured pebbles of the garden path. His chest rises and falls, his breath is hot with impotent anger. I bear down on him, trap him with my thighs.

“You cannot fight me, Ñolofinwë. Stop trying.”

“Did you truly come here to hurt me, then, brother – I have no wish to fight you, I want nothing to do with you.” He is squinting at me, flaring his shapely nostrils. Leaves and dust catch on his hair as he trashes once more, trying to rid himself of me.

Oh yes. I want to hurt him. I want him to feel me. But not in this way.

I let go of his left hand and grab his chin instead – the blood from my palm stains his pristine skin, and he would recoil from the hot slick if he could, such is the abhorrence upon his face. His freed hand comes to scratch at my wrist, digging deep.

I want to tell him things. I want to tell him to come back to me. I want to tell him to stop being so stubborn. I want him to accept the truth, the truth about us. I hold him hard, turn his face towards me, and still he squeezes his eyes shut as if the very sight of me pains him. The sharp nail of his thumb digs into my wounded palm, causing blood to gush down his neck.

I lean down, breathe against his pinched, pale lips. “Come back to me.”’

Ñolofinwë’s eyes open at that, and mayhap I catch something flashing in their sparkling depths.

“No,” he says, quiet yet certain, “never.”

A growl escapes my mouth, unbidden, annoyed. He swallows, blinks, his lashes brushing his flushed cheeks.

“ _I love you_ ,” I say now, hoping this is the right thing. I have said it, have I not, to my wife, to my father, to my children. I may have never said so to Ñolofinwë.

His lips part, but he says nothing – a quiver or two betray his emotions, but then he controls himself, much to my chagrin. I shake him, release his face, and immediately he presses his cheek into the ground, baring his throat but hiding his expression as well as he can.

“Do you hear me, Ñolofinwë?” He cannot deny me, how could he?

“You may love me like you love your possessions, your jewels, Fëanáro. But I am a person of my own! I will not let you sully me further – I will not lose my dignity for you, brother, never again.” He struggles anew, pushing at me with the hand not caught in my clasp, and now I let him slither away from underneath me as we both stand up. He is breathing hard, rubbing the lower part of his face. His tousled hair and bloodied skin loan a touch of madness to his looks.

I did not come here to be hurt by him, yet this is what he does now – and I am surprised that my heart should be this weak after all that I have become. I clench my hands, anchoring myself in the sting in my palm, and he turns away, brushing at his clothes as if he could somehow salvage his attire.

“You cannot hide your heart from me, Ñolofinwë.”

“And never have I tried, Fëanáro. But I must be wiser now.”

Wiser? Regarding what? Why is it that I no longer understand him? How is it wise to do _this_? How is it wise to –

“Is it because of what I said? Do you want me to apologise for that?”

Ñolofinwë makes a sound – it is a cross between a bark of laughter and an exasperated sob. “No. I do not believe you could profess your love and mean it. Not to me. I will be swayed by you no more – see, I finally understood that you were never gentle with me if hard hands would do, and never spoke kindly if insults would suffice. ‘Tis a choice you made, Fëanáro, a deliberate one. I shan’t have you debase either of us with such a lie, no, after you went to great lengths to make me see my shame for what it is.”

I tilt my head, confused, angry, dig my nails deeper into my palms. My chest feels cold, but my breath is hot enough to burn my throat.

His eyes narrow in his mundane face, lips are pinched tight. Something in me wants to pry my fingers between them, stop him from making that expression at me.

He sighs, lets his hands drop from his sash, pearls clicking against each other. I take a step towards him, and once again he tenses, as if my proximity brings him pain. I want to tell him to stop this. I want to hit some sense into him.

I do not.

We stare at each other. Ñolofinwë raises a hand, wipes at his face with his sleeve. His gaze drops down at the stain his previously pristine sleeve sports, and for a spell his eyes seek my hand, follow the _drip drip drip_ of my blood. It glistens against the rocks, painting tiny rivers before disappearing into the cracks.

“Fëanáro,” he says, and then parts his lips as if to continue – I wait, but then he says nothing more, and once again leaves me standing, humiliated and alone.

I bring my palm up to my mouth, suck at the broken skin, and spit out gravel in a red spray.

 

* * *

 

“I think you should leave him alone.”

Oh, how I love her. She always speaks up her mind. She is brave, stubborn, less idealistic than someone else I know. Her hands are no longer gentle against my skin – not even when she bandages my hand, rolls soft linen over the deep cut. She loves me for what I gave her, no longer for what I am.

“You may be right,” I murmur, and she gives me a humourless look, deft fingers tugging the tail of the dressing underneath a layer to finish her work. Then she pulls away, her simple robes hushing against her muscular thighs, half-hiding her pale feet.

“Stay,” I say, soften my voice – at first, she is as if she has not heard me, the shroud of her soft hair hiding her expression from me, and I sit still, my wounded hand resting upon my folded leg. Then she finally decides, and I watch as she releases her cape and drops it over a chair, mouth set tight and pale, green-grey eyes shadowed by straight brows and curved lashes. I do not resist when she kicks my leg down, makes me plant both of my feet firmly against the floor before coming to sit in my lap; my hands find the generous curves of her clothed hips, and her lips finally part for a kiss, curiously soft yet demanding. I stir – I stir like I always do, and she fishes me out of my trousers, dry calluses catching against skin.

She is not gentle, and I do not want gentle. I spit into my hand, wet myself – her eyes glimmer darkly, in a way only women’s eyes do, and she gives me no quarter as she presses my cock into herself, tightens around me, drags her walls against me so harshly I could easily believe she wants to tear me, cut off the part which put her through many painful labours. She bites into me as I lift her up, fabric bunching between my fingers, her sharp teeth skinning my lip, and graces me with a low, ragged moan as I drop her down, my prick pummelling a drop of wetness from her gash.

After, we rut, like we have rutted for years, knowing each other’s weak spots well enough to avoid them. It is a game of giving as little pleasure as possible while gaining as much as possible, fucking out of spite as only two estranged lovers can. I bite her neck and she digs her fingernails into my shoulders, using them as a leverage as she exploits me, quiet but for her pained hisses and hurried breaths.

I whisper her name and she pretends she does not hear me, merely licks her peachy lips as I tug one creamy breast out for my pleasure, swathe it with hungry kisses, my tongue drawing images into the pale skin. She lets me, pushes her tit deeper into my mouth as I catch it, and shoves one hand down between us to fondle at herself.

It doesn’t take long until she comes, her wondrous channel pulsing around my rod, her cheeks flushing with the exact shade of her bitten lips. I grasp her face, drag her down for a kiss – she whines, her glistening hand grasping my neck until I give in, and then pulls off me so swift that my prick bounces against my belly.

I growl. She sneers, pulling me up by my hale hand, and leads me over to the striped settee – tasselled pillows scatter as I push her to kneel against the curved armrest and gather her skirts up once more. The flesh of her ass is soft and cool against my hips as I ram into her, sweat making my wrinkled, soiled breeches stick into my thighs. She groans, grabs the wooden frame hard, and bears down on me with all her strength until I spill with a muted shout.

She pulls away, slightly indignant, lets her skirt drop. The room is thick with our smell. I tuck myself back into my breeches, re-lace them, study the ruined bandage.

“I will redo it before I go,” she offers, walks past me to where I keep the decanter. At least she approves of my wine.

“Thank you,” I say.

She sips, says nothing. Her hair hangs messily over her shoulder, her bodice drapes too low to be decent. I study her strong, beautiful face, the noble line of her mouth, and I find myself suddenly struck with nostalgia. I see my sons in her. I even see myself in her. But I also see the divide, this tear no one can ever mend. I see the weight of decisions, failure, fate. Ever have I despised fate. Failure, at least, can teach us something.

“Do not go to him,” she says, and I still wonder how she knows. I have been careful, until very recently. But she is not called Wise for nothing, and I have been a fool in this.

“I love him.” The words taste of our kiss, still, and I am not sure if she shivers as she watches me over the rim of her glass. “He has promised himself to me. He has bared his soul to me.”

She puts the glass down.

“Fëanáro,” she begins, saying my name with familiar exasperation, “in what throes of passion did he promise you such things? Mad, you are, and your madness spreads. He is of your mad blood, as well. Would that anyone could sway you. Would that you could be happy with what you have. Mayhap then he could believe you.”

“My mad blood. You knew of _my mad blood_ when you married me.”

She has not shed a tear for me in years. She does not start now. “Fëanáro, you either leave your loved ones wanting or burn them to ash. I left you – but do not think me unscarred by you.”

I watch her lace up her bodice, finger-comb her curly auburn hair. Her cheeks are still flushed.

“Your suffering was never my intention, Nerdanel.”

She laughs, a low titter, not-quite-bitter, hard. “That, I know. Yet your regard has always been first and foremost for yourself. Now that you cannot have something you want, you are tormenting yourself to insanity. It might yet be that you and Ñolofinwë deserve each other in the end.”

 

* * *

 

I wait, though I know not for what – mayhap for a time at which I shall wait no more. I am not used to idleness, and I majorly dislike this lack of inspiration.

Never before in my life has this happened.

I blame others.

I blame myself.

I drown the room in darkness to watch the Three glow, remain satisfied for a while – to see the proof of my brilliance has such an effect on me, but I find myself gazing at my creations in solitude now, stained by a murky nameless thought that refuses to leave me alone. I realise I do this often now and wonder at this change in myself.

I lie awake after the Mingling, fingers laced across my chest. A blackbird attempts to cheer me up with a lilting tune – I turn my head, watch the black shadow hop against the silvery light. His beak is yellow, as if struck from pascoite, obsidian eyes mounted in marigold. A sweet, skittish thing. I look away, hear the hush of wings as he takes flight.

“Atar,” Kanafinwë whispers, his voice besting the most talented of birds, “Atar, are you unwell?”

The concern in him moves me, and I put my hand over his offered palm. It is warm, pliable. Comforting. I try to smile. It is so like him to worry. I know he would sing my sorrows away if it were in his power to do so.

“I am quite well,” I answer, reach to tuck a lock of raven hair behind one gracious ear. My son is a beauty of rare kind, borrowing his round cheekbones and wide, high forehead from his mother. Yet he has my eyes if only kinder, and that pleases me as much as it terrifies me. “Would you sing me that new song of yours?”

The stars of elder days are mapped in his eyes, grey dots distorted by swelling tears – alarmed, I push myself up, sweep at them with my thumb. He cries without a sound, droplets gliding free like condensed dew from pointed leaves.

“Why do you weep?” I ask as I pull him close, press his face into the crook of my neck. His lashes flicker against my skin, draw wet marks beneath my jaw. “Has someone hurt you, dearest?”

“No,” is his quiet answer. “And yes.”

I shiver, rub a hand down his spine. Kanafinwë melts into my embrace like he did as a boy, entrusting, soft. For all his gifts, his pride and composure, he falls harder, hurts himself deeper. His fingers clutch my shoulder, my arm, and I let him comfort himself with my presence a moment longer before I press my lips against the crown of his dark head and whisper: “Who is it that you love?”

His breath drags, long and forceful, huffs against me with exasperation. “Does it matter?”

“No.”

“’Tis someone I have known for long and held close to my heart through lie and despair – yet I do not feel strong for it, no, for I am weak, and I feel I am losing myself.”

“You are not weak, Kanafinwë. You feel large. That is why you are so brilliant, why you move our hearts into joy and tears. You have done so since you were a child.”

“I am no longer a child,” he insists, his voice losing a little softness, and I croon in response, pet his hair, rub his neck.

How am I to tell him love reduces his father the same, how it reduced his own grandfather, how it blinded his mother to my nature?

“No longer a child,” I agree, “these things are curses and blessings of adulthood, and you are not excused from their splendour and ravage.”

“I do not – I do not feel blessed, Atar.”

“But you will – I promise you will be loved in the way your heart desires.”

And my promise – it may be a lie, for how can I truly know, but it seems to console him. He pulls away after a while, kisses my hand, thanks me, wishes me well, and leaves. While my son’s tears are still damp on my neck, I pull a blue scrap of cloth from underneath my pillow.

Nerdanel has called me _obsessed_ before, and I am beginning to see the wisdom of her observation.

 

* * *

 

Careless.

Careless with my heart.

For I have the eyes to see, and hands to collect, a good pair of feet to take me into places. I have sat on satin, velvet, in jewelled leather saddles, atop strong hips. I have created, oh have I created – my children, the most important, or the Hidden Three in a coffer stashed away. I have become empty, void of hope, for there is naught more for me to do. For whom do I struggle, for I am less loved than my dear half-brother, the Prince of Hearts, whose hands have created nothing of worth, whose children still scour the woods in play.

I want to break his face.

I want to break…

 

* * *

 

Tiger’s eye. Black opal. Lemon jade. Jasper.

I catalogue the colours in his eyes, hardly listening to his words, hoping that if I stare at him incredulously enough, he will tire of me and leave.

“— For you have not been seen in court, and some wonder if your Lordship has willingly surrendered your operations to Prince Ñolofinwë. I would not believe, of course, but that seems to be the consensus among your followers. You are expected among your subjects, Your Highness, to support the views you have given into their consideration.” He sips my wine, thin long fingers wrapped around the chalice in an elegant manner. Gold hangs from his ears, drapes his chest, stands sharp against the black of his robe. Even his sandals are laid in gold, the links so delicate I grow curious and stare at the foot he has propped up over a knee.

He makes a sound. I look up. The foot I had inspected is lowered to the floor.

“Whose Maia are you, again?”

“My Lord Aulë’s.”

“You do not look like a smith.”

“I am not limited by the shape of this form, Your Highness.”

“But of course, you are right.”

“And this is why, Your Highness, I know of your forges, of the apprentices you have bidden to smelt ore en masse, to create harder and harder steel.” His eyes glint, a spark across a shadow, and he leans forward as if to share a secret. “Weapons to cut through muscle and bone, to sever flesh.”

“’Tis hardly been a secret for some time, now. I still know not why you are here.”

“It has come to my knowledge that your half-brother is making weapons of his own.”

I smile at him. The gesture feels waxy, empty, but I hope his knowledge of Eldar facial expressions is not too vast. “It does not surprise me. He is not one to sit idle, the younger prince.”

The Maia’s lips quirk upward, exposing the tips of his sharp teeth. “But do you happen to know, my Lord, what happened to the crate of billets confirmed lost while crossing a river, the one which your servants were unable to retrieve?”

A muscle twitches near my eye. I could swear the Maia looks amused, but it is hard to say with these people.

“I have a feeling you are about to tell me.”

“Why, yes – the crate was delivered with its contents intact to a metallurgist who happens to be on your half-brother’s payroll.”

The wine is sipped, gingerly like hot tea, multicoloured eyes are downcast, almost shy. I force myself to smile, reach for the carafe, pour my glass full.

 

* * *

 

All this, and no one still sees it but I. For I do, knowingly, with full intent, do as I do.

Their eyes are terrified, noble beings reduced to prey, to cattle and sheep – for I am a wolf, clad in steel. My arm has a terrifying extension these people may know from sports, never to be used for real – never to be sharpened to a deadly edge.

They had not seen me come, _but they see me come_ , and scatter away like flocks of birds.

All but one.

His clothes are silk, his skin frail like paper. I put my gauntleted hand upon his neck, the tip of my sword against his breast. His pulse is wild beneath my hand, his eyes wide, bluer than the heart of a lapis lazuli, darker against the paleness of his skin as colour draws from his face…

 

* * *

 

I know not what my father grieves most, watching from his chamber window at the wild scenery below. Gone are the cherry trees, the garden paths, the gazebos, the wind awash with floral scent. Instead, mountains greet his solemn face, look down on us, and snow dapples the valley below. Here breeze smells of frost, pinches at bare cheeks, whips unbraided hair. If it had a colour, it would be the pale-to-dark blue in the heart of permafrost.

He clutches his elbows, drags his nails over the red velvet. His black hair is brushed back, caught loosely with a bow between his shoulder blades – from there, it cascades down, all the way where his robe touches the floor and flares like an exotic blossom. He is that, plucked from his throne, his palace, with his diadem removed from his forehead, brought into the cold north. I ache watching him languish, but ache more for thinking him leave – his love, at least, is loyal in kind, and in this I am a lucky son.

How much pain have I brought upon him.

And now he reminds me of Ñolofinwë, standing like this, watching out like this – the way they hold their bodies is the same, they are both tall and slightly rigid. I find myself thinking of my half-brother, wondering if he occupies my father’s throne, or does he have the decency to keep out of it.

I call to my father, and he turns to look at me with sad grey eyes, around which time has carved delicate webs only cruel light exposes. Yet he offers me his hand. I take it, kiss it with tenderness, and his fond smile almost makes up for the forlorn look in his eyes. In my presence his aura brightens, and I take solace in the familiarity of his colours.

 

* * *

 

Intuition – or this damned threat connecting us soul-to-soul – guides me to the balcony to watch him pull to a stop at my gates. He is wrapped in white furs, big blue hood down, his exquisite black hair draping his shoulders and arms in a way that shows absolutely no care for such things. The muscular mount trapped between his thighs neighs as my guards step forth, ready to seize the bucking horse and bring his rider down.

Ñolofinwë pays them no heed. His foot guides the beast to the side before my warrior can grab the reins, and when he swiftly steers the horse around his feet the poor elf is forced to back off so that he does not get hit by the powerful rear. Ñolofinwë does not even look down at him – the sapphires find me as though they had known all along, and we stare at each other across the distance while my followers shout threats and taunts at him.

He is too fast for either of them. After a moment, seeing that I am not about to interfere, he pushes his heels in and the steed surges forward, jumps over the ditch, and I watch my brother ride up the length of the stone fence, unbound hair like a glossy black flag.

The commotion has alerted the sentries at the south-eastern wall, and that is finally where the prince’s advance is halted, the reins pulled from his hands and the prince himself dragged down. He does not fight them but goes willingly, resigned to his fate.

I grab the bannister and lean forward, the wind catching at my hair and wrapping it around my neck and face. My voice bellows with an echo from rock and wall as I bid them to bring my half-brother to me.

And then I wait the long moments, turning my back towards the balcony and closing the doors to shield my study from the chill. Had I foreseen this somehow, I would have dressed better to appear princely in my exile, but it is too late, and then again, it hardly matters. Let him see me wild and savage.

My father’s voice in the corridor is at first delighted, then horrified, and then delighted and muffled. I think he must have buried his face into Ñolofinwë’s hair and now embraces him all tightly and fatherly and lovingly. Then after a moment I hear him, catch the cadence of the heels of his riding boots, his voice asking – no, demanding – to see me now that he is no doubt no longer being handled by my followers. I grind my teeth, push back my hair, stare the door down until it opens –

And behold, he enters, brings the scent of snow and earth with him, the hues of frost and orchid and mercury, the chilled blush on his cheeks, the vivid purple of a bruise settling upon his brow from when he was pulled down. He is tall, maybe taller than ever, and if my presence once weighed him down, it does so no more.

“Curufinwë,” he says, nodding his head, and if he had been in a hurry a moment ago, it seems it all has melted along with the flecks of snow from his hair.

I do not say his name back to him but wait – he watches me from under his rich lashes and moves then, drops the furs from his shoulders over a chair. Beneath it he wears a long, simply cut tunic dyed with indigo, long enough to touch his knees. Black breeches of soft leather disappear into his tall boots.

Ñolofinwë has changed, finally grown into himself. I expected him to diminish and grow dull in power, yet he seems more alert than ever, stronger than ever. The room feels full of him, and I cannot deny I feel threatened – the realisation does not sit well with me.

“Why are you here?” I do not like the sound of my voice – it is too frustrated, too clipped, and I reach up to rub at my throat as if something had bothered me there.

His eyes narrow, then soften – the ice melts, and for a moment I think of peach trees, glitter of precious stones in the water, the scent of a rose stem after being cut, the crumble of sugar crust. Is he my king now? He cannot be – I remind myself how much I _hate_ him. _The usurper_. His is polluted, diluted blood. He is still haughty, like he never was in my bed. He is still ordinary, ill-begotten, unfit to bear a crown. He thinks he is my superior, what, standing like this, in my room, breathing my air, fitting himself into my presence as if he had never left. I take a step back as he takes one closer, and the hope he had carried in his eyes dies in a frozen hush.

“I had a wish,” he starts, “to see my father. My nephews. And you.”

“’Tis ill-mannered, to invade my privacy after you partook in sending me into my exile. Did you expect a warm welcome, half-brother, after all your lies and hidden plots?”

He looks at me, wrings his hands in front of him, and suddenly looks so young that I finally have a chance to gather my composure. _This is no king._

“All I did, I did in defence of myself and my people. You would say the same.”

How dare he. I pull myself straighter, bigger – we are like two cats staring each other down. Beneath his almost humbled appearance, I sense he is not quite that impressed by me. It is as if I am giving him the exact treatment he expected, yet his following words fully contradict him.

“I had hoped for a welcome, nonetheless. A year has passed. You are missed, my stubborn brother.”

Yellow and red light of the living hearth glints off his hair as he turns away, having given up trying to surprise me with an embrace. The line of his back is still rigid, but his shoulders slump a little. My iciness seemingly gets to him. It is a big enough change, I reckon, after how our last meetings played out. He has no clue how to deal with it – he busies himself studying the room, noting the colourful tapestries behind which cold grey walls hide, and the thick carpets patterned with rich designs thrown across the floor. His gaze lingers on the mess of parchment and quills on my desk, finds the gown I had left forgotten over the chair. His long fingers study the carving of the fireplace mantle, trace the gnarled lines of the branches hewn in granite. And I wonder if my heart is shaped from stone, as well, or is it only his – for how does he even dare, rub salt over the wound his insult left behind, fling dirt at my face after removing my family from their beloved home? I feel my pulse pick up, try to will it down – my hands become fists, and my ribs hot iron.

“You should be the last to speak of yearning, half-brother, unless it is that of power. I may deserve your ire, but hardly betrayal – and this, this I shall never forgive.”

He stares at me, the look on his face like the one he bore when he first left my house and never knelt in front of me again. I expect him to don a hard mask, one which would defile his features further, pinch his lips tight and white and crease the space between his eyes. He does not, and I wonder if it is sorrow I see in his eyes, and how would he even know of such things. What he has lacked in the depth of emotion, he makes up in wiliness, and my greatest regret is that once upon a time I let his innocent eyes fool me.

“You have never sought to understand me, Curufinwë – to blame me of treachery told me as much. I had hoped that your time here had taught you something. Please – let this be a game, one we can finish. Make amends. Let us be brothers again.”

Amends? Really? What is there for me to amend?

“Have I not made myself clear, Ñolofinwë? Did the tip of my sword not do that, or do you yet desire a taste of your own blood? Or has the crown grown too heavy for you?”

He is brought in front of me with two long steps, and my senses are assaulted by the smell of frost and leather and horse lingering about him. His breath is suddenly hard, his eyes like the very heart of a flame, the blue flickering halo. My hands shoot up to his cuffed wrists as he grabs my face between his palms.

“For all you speak of murder, _brother_ , you are poor at executing your desire – mayhap that is why I live in Tirion, and you are here. But it was not my blood you were after when you came for me in our Father’s garden. There is something you wish to stick in me, and that is not steel.”

It takes all my willpower not to blush bright with anger. What of it, if I incinerate his hands and burn them to cinders for daring to touch me? Who would blame me? That is right, they all would. There is hardly a place norther they could banish me.

Then he leans in, and while I bring my arm up to stop him, his mouth is on mine. ‘Tis not a kiss. I bite into him and his lip bursts like a cherry over my tongue – he groans, slides his slick tongue over my teeth, thumbs digging into my cheeks until I part for him. He is brave to slip inside my mouth, explore its depths until I gasp around it and feel too faint for comfort, and I let go of his wrists to hold onto his shoulders instead, soft wind-whipped hair winding around my fingers…

Then he pulls away, threads of blood and saliva connecting us. His mouth is a bloodied mess, ruddy flesh glistening with wet crimson, and he studies it with obvious savour with the tip of his vile tongue. This time I have no words for him – he regards me then, thoughtfully, eyes the dark of a shadow in a field of wild violets during Telperion’s time, lashes framing their subtle glow in a rather exquisite way. He thumbs at my lip as if to coat the span of it in his own blood, and then gives me an odd, wistful smile.

“You are mad,” I whisper, a shiver rattling up my spine. His closeness after so much time, I think, this is what it does to me. Ñolofinwë was right, once upon another dream, when his unsightliness bothered me more than it does now – we should stay apart, as far from each other as we can. This is uncouth.

And yet… And yet…

“I know,” he mutters, his hands lingering upon my heated face a mere moment longer before he lets them drop, steps away, my own hands now empty. “I must be.” And then: “I will take my leave now, with your permission. I shall exchange a few words with our Father and see if any of my nephews would like to greet me. Then, I will be gone.”

“I want you gone within the hour,” I say, putting a few paces between us again, clutch my chair with both of my hands. His face is solemn, now – he wipes at his lip with a handkerchief, unaffected by the blood that stains it. Soon, his mouth looks almost as if I had never ravaged it, and I am left with the taste of him, hot and cold, iron and kindling, memories of lust and violence.

“This I promise.”

And for once, Ñolofinwë is as good as his word.

 

* * *

 

Wild.

Oh, is he _wild_.

The light is out, but he shines, with his armour soon spattered with the red of the kindred, spills marking him in stripes and stains less delicate than his swift, savage slashes. The cobbles beneath him gather the blood in rivulets thicker and thicker, darker and deeper. Beneath his helm his jaw is set hard, his upper lip curled in distaste and suppressed rage.

“Where were you?” I ask, panting, my gauntleted hand tight around the hilt of my own bloodied sword. I am scraped and sweaty, but my fury still burns bright.

He looks at me, torchlight gilding his links and plates. His sons and daughter are with him, but I have eyes only for him.

“Does it matter?” he asks, shadows deep beneath his tortured gaze. Never has his aura been so vibrant, strong. The stubbornness he regards me with nearly dispels the mad rage my heart has driven itself in – yet for the first time something familiar watches back, and while bloodied and sore, I ache for him.

“No,” I answer, and watch as the summoned gale of dark places shatters the peace of his braids, throws them about his plate-clad shoulders like oily tendrils. I recognise my steel, oh yes, I do, and I know it will protect him well.

“You are my brother.”

“Yes – yes, I am.”

 

* * *

 

And yet abandon him, I did.

Somehow, I knew, as I watched into the distance beyond flame and smoke, that his eyes were set upon us, fire kindling in them as well. Somehow, I knew that he cursed me, twice, thrice, a thousand times.

_Go home_ , I thought then, _go back home_.

And amazing it is, how during a time of duress, images and desires fly with the clarity of purest crystal, prism untouched by bare hand.

How fear grips me when I think of him, and how I wonder if it was wisdom that kept me from going back for him. No, _lies_ – I hated him, I hate him still, with passion that burns through me much like the fever, this cage of fire that causes my veins to boil, _boil_ , and makes heat expand my veins and clot my blood. I am torn open, exposed, the pain of my mutilated, broken body causing my doomed fëa to scream for _release_. And scream I do as my sons’ hands touch me, until I can do so no more.

 

* * *

 

They build a fortress around me, a mausoleum for my flickering spirit and damaged frame, wall upon wall upon wall – I have never seen all of it but from the sketched plans Curufinwë has shown me, his voice carefully kept low, his fingers steady as they trace the inked lines for me, _“a tower here, a ditch over here, let me show you the new drawbridge I designed…”_

And if I could afford to speak, I would thank him, tell him how proud I am – instead I shift my hand an inch towards him, and try not to wince as he takes it, kisses it, his breath hot over my thin skin.

I sleep poorly, and I sleep deeply. I wake up to my eyes catching a flicker of light somewhere, my ears conjuring the sound of a thundering roar. There is a burst of sparks, like that of hammer and anvil, but the memory of pain is still vivid though my skin bears patches that no longer feel – it takes me many long moments to realise it is Morifinwë shifting crackling wood with a poker, his dark silhouette drawn against the living flame. His sharp ears catch my groan, and then he is at my side, tilting my head up, dropping cool water into my mouth. His presence is soothing, for all he is oft sullen, and I sleep soon after he lowers me back down to the pillows.

But flame does not leave me alone. I dream of it again, of the red kiss against white hull, the masts like torches in the ever-night, the eerie glow which drowns out the true darkness. I had painted one shore red, and another orange, and in the end I too caught fire.

“Pityo,” I whisper, and reach blindly upward until my hand meets soft, cool hair.

I open my eyes, hope turning from a refreshing mountain spring to a sickening, stale draught of realisation. Telufinwë’s eyes are hard, the silver in them turned to steel. In his sorrow he has become mad, I know, though I do not speak of it for fear that my other sons will forbid him from coming to me. If he decides to press one of my pillows over my face during any of his silent, cold vigils, I have no means of stopping him, and mayhap… mayhap that would only be right.

 

* * *

 

I dream of my wife.

I dream of her forest-pond eyes, of molten copper and hazel dewdrops, of the way her smile crinkles their corners in this irresistible way; I dream of the dip of her lower back, of the gentle mounds rising to meet my hands; I dream of her tired, satisfied smile as she holds another babe in her arms, proud, more beautiful than ever.

I dream of my mother.

I dream of the softest shawls, how she used to wrap one around us – how the cool, light wool would keep out the chill as we sat together and watched the swans’ slow glide, her voice weaving poetry into my ear.

I dream of my father.

I dream of his ever-present sadness, one I understood well but wished he had nurtured instead of dispelled. I dream of his arms around me, of the gentle lilt of his voice reading me stories of lands he once left behind.

I dream of Nelyafinwë.

He is lost to us, Kanafinwë has told me, his eyes having long since lost their innocence. Yet I see him, his loving smile, and in a dream made of cherry trees and vanilla-flavoured whipped cream I press my nose into his hair once more, and breathe in the scent of his youth, innocence, the excitement of discovery as we are showered in a rain of pink petals.

And I dream of _him_.

I remember his young heart-shaped face and lithe shape ere adulthood brought bulk to his jaw and squared his shoulders. I once more see his victorious smile at the end of a tournament, the white cheek beneath the sweat-striped dust, the roundness brought forth as he grins, his heart in his gaze. I catch his vile words, thrown at me in anger and shame, the ruddiness of his indignity as I slap him with my callused hand. I recall the hardness of his mouth as he first descended upon me so many years ago, the strength of his fingers tugging hair loose from my scalp as he gave himself over, violently, eagerly. Those slender hips which melted under the roughness of my hands. The twitching, shy hole eating up my finger as I first pierced it, my own possessive growl as he took me to the root; his hard nipples swelling between my fingertips as I handled him, the ripple of his muscles beneath my splayed hand. His sharp teeth biting into my fingers as I rode the waves of his release, lathered his insides with my seed. The dark look of him afterwards, when he pushed me down and bit a row of delicate marks all over my backside and then laved me with that pretty, pink tongue until I, in turn, writhed.

And I wish I would not.

 

* * *

 

In another dream he finds me, framed in golden light, a blaze which first makes me flinch as it filters through black iron filigree. His steps take him closer, closer for the first time – before, he always ran away from me, turned his back, stepped into a shadow my sight could not penetrate. His halo of flames thoroughly dispels the residue of darkness, and were I not so dazed I would be frightened. It is not Ñolofinwë – and yet it is him, I feel his presence like a weight in the bottom of my heart and feathery tickle in the inside of my skull, a moth tethered by its transparent lace wing.

He does not speak but lowers his hand upon my forehead – it is cool despite the fire, hard like marble yet gentle, chasing my thoughts away in favour of dreamless sleep.

When I come to, it is to the quiet presence of Turcafinwë beside me, his lips turning into a half-smile at the recognition flickering across my gaze. He smells of berries and grass, of earth and leaf, of blood and prime and vigour. I vaguely wonder if Oromë would be proud of him, and then I _remember_.

 

* * *

 

Ñolofinwë appears to me again, and this time his profile is silvered softly by a source I cannot see. My dreams, they are strange lately, and I feel I have slept years away. I turn my head towards him, watch him, afraid to blink in case he disappears. Some things I left home away from home – for am I not home now – but it seems I took a bigger piece of him than I realised, having his image visit me like this.

“Are you a ghost, Ñolofinwë, haunting me like this?” My voice is rough from disuse – my throat feels dry, laden with black ash. _Did you stumble in the dark, or did the Holiest condemn you into the darkness with me?_

I can feel his smile, oddly enough in the very centre of my chest – an extinguished spark come to life by the grace of epiphany. The room is too dim to properly see his face, and while my eyelids remain heavy his visage is blurred by my lashes. Something tightens within me, springs into existence just beneath my skin. I sigh, try to wet my lips with my heavy tongue, look away from him with renewed anguish.

_Say something._

_Say anything._

The chair creaks as he rises, shifts to sit on the bed beside me. My hand moves to his bony knee, feels the warmth of life beneath – surely not a ghost, to be this fleshy, but how else could this be explained? I look up at him again, wrench my eyes a little more open – the line of his jaw is familiar, the twinkle of blue eyes is there, but the hair that slips over my hand is coarse and lifeless instead of soft and sleek.

He reaches for the enchanted lamp, touches the surface to replace the gloom with glow – yet I am blinded for a moment, blinking up at his face.

Yes, his eyes. The deep-sea sapphires, frozen mountain diamonds, the royal blue shadows between cerulean waves, twin hearts of a flame. I have hated them, feared them, missed them…

I let my gaze travel his face, feel my heart skip a beat here and there.

He takes my hand and brings it up to his discoloured cheek, guides my fingers over the patchy, thin skin. I notice that some of his fingers miss their tips, and the point of his ear looks torn, cartilage curled like a withering petal, the plump lobe which once bore a jewel shrivelled to nothing. Even his nose is reshaped, and pale pink lips are puckered with scars.

Then those lips part, and I shiver at the sound of his voice, blessed and cursed. It is not the voice I remember, but it is a voice I recognise.

“I have thought of what I wish to tell you, Fëanáro, for all these long years, but now that I am here, I no longer know.”

I know not if he looks down upon me with pity, or is he merely reminiscing. I pet the corner of his mouth with my thumb, quietly mourn the damage his hröa has suffered. He notices this, or maybe he guesses, and his lips twist into a wry smile.

“You called me ugly, before.”

Against his gaunt and disfigured face, my scarred, twisted hand looks like it belongs – too soon Ñolofinwë deposits my limb back over the blanket. “I called you plain.”

“Something plain in mighty Fëanáro’s collection sounds unlikely. No wonder you tried so hard to get rid of me.” There is an edge to his voice, now, one I rather feel as a cut than hear – somewhat invigorated by this strange turn of events, I push myself up a little, crawl on my backside to sit against the pillows. Ñolofinwë follows, sliding closer to me, and it is he who touches me now, slips his hand down my neck to my clavicle where several scars risen from the path of ash meet. Unapologetically, I feel my being swell beneath his hand, a tug of a soul pulling at the other. His face, surprisingly enough, shows no concern – he is curious of me, as I am of him.

“Your appointed regent told me what happened,” he says after a moment, tilting his head. “Mayhap, had I not been welcomed by your sorry sight and raving dream, I would have let my dagger slip.” I can tell he is serious, though his lips are quirked. “You fought through fire – I walked through ice. Mayhap our opposites finally complement each other.”

A smile cracks across my face. “Someone told me that we might deserve each other in the end.”

His fingers drag down my chest, their uneven lengths burying themselves into my tunic – again, we stare at each other. His breath hitches a little as it leaves his misshaped nose. I feel his anger rise, his aura colouring in reds; yet his voice is level, the momentary calm after a sudden cold gush.

“If you think I have forgiven you, Fëanáro, you may think again. Many died because of you, and I do not speak of Alqualondë only. Your promises to me rang hollow, for all my faith in you.”

“You were a fool, Ñolofinwë. You condemned your people yourself.”

“A plain fool! And yet.” He lets the fabric unfold from his grasp and sits back, lowering his hands in his lap. He is dressed simply, I see – there is no crown on his head, no diadem indicating status. However, I cannot shake the thought that he still wears his strength in his legs and arms, holds high his head, while I lie weak and fashion murky worlds from thin threads of memories.

“And yet,” I murmur in answer, push at his fingers with mine. “You promised to follow me, and so you did.”

“I know not if I did so out of spite and vengeance.”

“Surely, my sons would not have let you in had they expected your hand to _slip_.”

He sighs, softly now, and gives me a solemn look as his fingers finally curl around mine, briefly, then unfold them to study the faded scar in my palm. “My son did not give up hope that yours might yet live.”

I blink at him, uncomprehending.

Ñolofinwë gives my fingers a squeeze. “An eagle bore them back, and your eldest is fighting for his life in the hands of healers. I have surrendered the medicine we had left so the marks of his prolonged exposure could be healed. And trust me – my folk are experienced in treating those.”

Surely, he must be jesting – cruelly, as cruelly as he ever could, to tell me such things after sitting here, talking to me about this and that. My throat constricts, letting out a terrible wheeze, the familiar burn in my lungs causing a painful prickle to run along my ribs. He brings his mismatched hands beneath my shoulders and pulls me properly up then, up against his chest, and lets me fight for my breath while drawing circles into my back.

I know not how gestures like this survive the frozen wastes, but he does not fail me. In a burst of fatigued grief, I tug at his robe, and he folds his arms around me a little tighter while burying his face into my hair.

“I must see him.”

“And you will,” he promises, “but right now, either of us would be in the way.”

We remain like that, for a long while – I listen to his breathing, quiet, my eyes closed, and he relearns the shape of my back, traces my spine with the familiar intimacy of a lover and with the hard-won possession of a conqueror. I wonder at that now that there is very little of me to have – has Ñolofinwë followed my torch, thinking he would find an inferno at the end of his long road? If he is disappointed by the weak spark kept alive by my dutiful sons, he shows none of that. Beneath the tarnished layers his fëa is enfolded into, I find a remnant of my own Flame. Alive, well, cherished even – and hated with ardour equal to that with which I have damned his life a thousand times over.

Only Ñolofinwë would take the impossible road, let the elements ravage and harden him. Only my brother would find me at the end of mine, and put this sick, horrible hope back into me, nurture my heart for his own selfish gains. I still at least half-expect him to carry a concealed dagger and so lay in wait for that sharp kiss between my ribs – any of these breaths could be my last, yet I cherish them just as I fear them, hot trails clinging to my cheeks, the hooks of my fingers clutching his bony elbows.

“I saw… a fire.”

“’Twas no fire, Fëanáro. It is a gift from the Valar. Two of them, in fact.”

I do not understand him, and I still as I try to wrap my mind around it all. When he pulls back and stands up, it is to draw the blanket off my withered legs, and then to pick me up with little preamble. For a fleeting moment I wonder if I should let my wounded dignity show, push at him to make him put me down – I am not a child to be carried on a whim – but then he is holding me by the window, and through the master artisan’s glass I see a wonder whose likeness I had yet to witness, the very object loaning the silver light to Ñolofinwë’s face and hair. I tense in his arms, awed, hold onto his hard shoulders a little tighter. He presses his lips against my temple, his mild breath tickling the corner of my eye.

“This one is gentler. I like it more.” I surprise myself with these words.

“It will pass, and the flame will rule once more.”

“And after that… silver again?”

“Yes.” He now sounds amused.

“Are we doomed to chase each other in this way until the end of time?”

“Or until your stupid Oath finally undoes you, Fëanáro.”

“Ah. You do not believe in us, then? Why such a weak heart now that you are finally here?” An odd question from someone who has laid long years in darkness, but I ask it all the same. I have not had the strength to feel hopeful in ages – courage has been way beyond my grasp. I am ashamed of this now. This is not how I wanted him to find me. Not that I ever expected him to find me.

“Who knows? You ever undid me. I am here to make sure you pull yourself together. It is but weakness and despair that keep you abed.” I tear my gaze off from the silver-white light travelling across the sky to look at my brother instead. What beauty he had is destroyed, but I realise I put less value on such things now. He makes me shiver, inside-out, with nameless feelings beyond love and hate; is this need, after all, and what would I be with, without? I could choose to hate him. I could choose to love him. Such things, mayhap, yet remain in my power, should I ever be able to make up my mind. But do I know how to live without him now that he is here with his gnarled hands and eerie face? Did I ever even know myself, without him as my mirror…

I murmur his name back to him, dig my thumb into the deep hollow of his collarbone, and surrender my brother the moment to play out as he wishes.

He smiles at that, the tips of his teeth showing in a feral grin. Lascivious. Thrilling.

“And besides… how will I punish you for your betrayal and slake my thirst for revenge upon your hide, if you lie on your back moaning and whining instead of claiming this land you so coveted, and those damned jewels I want nothing to do with.”

He looks back at me, into me, the unearthly glow of Aman as precious as Treelight still present in his bluebell stare, and then nuzzles his ruined nose against my mangled cheek until I tip my chin upward and meet him halfway in a kiss. The dry skin of his lips scrapes mine, and neither of us is skilled or practised in this art anymore, but nevertheless I stroke the seam of his mouth with my tongue until he opens up for me and caresses my slick muscle with his.

“Eru,” he whispers as we part, his next words soft like a ruffled plume, “Fëanáro, you look grisly.”

“Damn you,” I say, and lower my head upon his shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Raiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana) for fixing this. Remaining mistakes are mine.


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